Rogue
by The Lost Light
Summary: Lies and betrayals, mystery and accusations, death and war... The Cahill youth think they've seen it all, but it isn't until a rogue penetrates their forces that they realized what's at stake. Because everything's repairable until it comes down to murder.
1. Make A Wish on Our Sorry Little Hearts

**summary: **Lies and betrayals, mystery and accusations, death and war... The Cahill youth think they've seen it all, but it isn't until a rogue penetrates their forces that they realized what's at stake.

Because everything's repairable until it comes down to murder.

**a/n**: Hello, all. Before you accuse me of robbing Seabound's exhilarating fanfiction, I suggest you check her profile for the little adoption note on her profile. My own works will begin from the next chapter, but I have added little snippets of my own writing into this chapter. I will leave her warning here, and I will also succumb to her request of naming the chapters after the lyrics of one of her favorite songs. I will match them to the chapters to the best of my ability. In addition, as said in the original story, Ian Kabra is nineteen — almost twenty — years of age. The idea of this fic is based off of the X-Men comics, cartoons, and the first five movies.

**warning:** Cursing. Violence. Beware.

**disclaimer**: I only own original content below. The rest is property of the authors of _The 39 Clues _series. This disclaimer applies to the entire fanfiction.

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**« Make a Wish on Our Sorry Little Hearts »**

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His throat burns from the liquor.

It was the only coherent thought that flitted through the hazy depths of his raging mind. He vaguely recalled his butler reminding him that there was a very important call he were to take, and being tipsy during it wouldn't have been the most _intelligent_ idea. But Adrian Benjamin Kabra was past his days of caring, and he honestly didn't give a cent if one of the branch leaders were to catch him drunk. Nothing mattered except for the bold letters blaring at him from his calendar. His branch could wait. The annual mourning congregation was the Madrigals' idea and _they_ could deal with it. Why had he proposed to take responsibility of the reservations?

_I don't give a damn._

He wanted to be alone with the large _August 16th _blaring at him in bolded block letters on the screen of his virtual calendar that rested on the edge of his mahogany desk. He wanted to be alone with the large bottle of alcohol clasped in his hand, the extras in the refrigerator tucked into the corner of his office, and the empty ones rolling on the floor. He took a burning swig, the liquid assaulting his tongue with its bitter taste. It scraped through his throat like fiery lava, watering his bloodshot eyes, but he didn't mind because it soon cooled pleasantly, the effects going straight to his brain. His vision blurred, his body lightened, and his problems flushed themselves out of his mind promptly.

_Only a few more_.

A nagging portion of his mind reminded him of his responsibilities. His sister would disapprove of his lowly actions, and promptly reach to pluck the bottle out of his hands and call a servant to get him to bed. His mother would cluck her tongue at him and flash a fiery glower before assigning him a grueling task. His father would shake his head with words of utter disappointment tumbling from his tongue, reminding his son what a failure he really was.

He clutched the neck of the bottle, a groan of frustration leaving his lips.

_Sod it._

He downed the remaining alcohol in seconds, wincing as it burned through his body. Despite being a heavyweight drinker, he stumbled slightly. This was more than his normal. The room spun beneath his feet, and he briefly wondered why his fireplace was spouting green flames instead of orange and red. His mind immediately took a voyage back in time, and the hazy memory of watching wizards and witches burst through fireplaces with green flames licking at their robes with his sister struck him like a pile of bricks. He halted behind his desk chair, staring wide-eyed at the calendar, all the air knocked out of his lungs.

_Natalie_.

He had thought about her. He had conjured a direct thought about his sister — the one thing that he had been desperately avoided doing. His arms tensed, and his shoulders drew back. His head tilted downwards as pain throbbed in his chest, as he thought about his broken family. He had no mother. He had no sister. And his father had might as well been dead from all the years he spent in hiding. The man hadn't come to his collapsing family's aid. He was a dead man to Ian.

Uncomfortable pain clenched his torso as his heart thudded with irregular beats. He squeezed his amber eyes shut, his knuckles white from holding the back of his seat with an iron grip. The only sounds he could hear were the loud beats of his heart and the crackling of the fire.

The shrill tone of an alarm cut through the silence and rang with the reminder of his pending meeting. His eyes flew open, bright with remembered agony and unrestrained rage at the nuisance. He gritted his teeth, bending down to clasp his fingers around the neck of an empty glass bottle. His arms drew back in a swing, and he slammed the glass against the face of the clock.

_Crash!_

He barely flinched at the noise and calmly surveyed the mess. Jagged edges of glass mixed with the gears and hands of the remains of what had been his clock. The hardwood floor was now tainted with a large scratch from the impact of the crash. His amber eyes wandered to where his electronic calendar rested, and his swung his fist.

_Deep breathes._

A shard of glass with uneven edges teetered on the edge of his desk. He caught the piece, crushing it in his hand. He barely registered the pain of glass cutting through layers of skin. Blood seeped from the wound, trickling down his fingers and dripping onto the floor. He observed the color of red against the clear crystal.

Ian narrowed his eyes at the floor and turned on his heel, walking — no — _stumbling_ towards the door. His thoughts were a hazy mess, no more organized than the destruction at the foot of his desk. He tore his coat off its rack, hastily slipping on the thick material. His hand reached to close around the brass doorknob, but the door opened on its own accord, and he stumbled back. At the threshold, a face worn with old age and years of work examined him with sympathy. Ian glowered at his expression, and Bickerduff promptly morphed his features into a passive expression.

"The Cahill residence calls from near the Canadian borders and asks of your presence in the planning of the annual memorial service, Mr. Kabra."

The butler extended his hand, passing a muted phone to Ian. He opened his mouth to remark upon the drunken state of the Kabra, but he refrained himself. He had learned quite easily that a Kabra's anger was a danger thing that was to be avoided at all means. Despite his care for the boy, caused by the time that he spent in raising him, he decided to keep his paternal comments at bay. Ian had made it rather clear many times that Bickerduff's job was one of business - to serve the Kabra family — and nothing less.

Besides, the fury of Adrian Kabra was probably the most hazardous after his mother's, and the seventy year old man was not fond of being the receiving side of a scolding.

Even if his employer was only nineteen years of age.

Ian scowled at the device, taking only a moment to collect his scattered thoughts before clicking the unmute button and mumbling an irritated greeting.

"Ian Kabra, you were supposed to be here _two_hours ago." Sinead Starling's voice is breathless and furious. "At first we thought it was your flight — Hamilton came in late, too, because of some turbulence during the ride — but after an early dinner and waiting for an hour, you _still_ didn't show! The memorial service is supposed to be next week," she rushed on, and Ian winced as her fast-paced, nasal voice caused a headache to form. "Next week, Ian! This is the last week we have to plan! We let you off for all the other meetings, but this one has all the major final touches and _do you know you are to give a speech_? I can't believe you're so - "

"Insensitive?' he growled. "Uncaring? Ignorant? Idiotic? Unhelpful?"

Sinead's mouth dropped open on the other end of the line, and she stumbled over her words in shock. "I..."

"Don't know what to say, eh?" Ian offered bitterly. "I think I have the right to request a day off. I have fulfilled my role as an organizer of the program. Is there any other specific reason that you are calling me, then?"

She cleared her throat. "We were to review all the reservations for the program, and enforce the security procedures in advance. Ian, this is more than any old gathering."

"Well," Ian said thoughtfully, "I suppose you won't hesitate to tell me exactly _what_ the purpose of this gathering is, then?"

"To honour the ones we lost in the duration of the Cluehunt and battle against the Vespers," she replied in a beat, a confused note to her voice.

He chuckled dryly. "Is it, then? Would you care to amuse me with the attendance of our branch leaders?"

"I don't see how that is any of your business, Mr. Kabra."

"I believe it _is_, Ms. Starling."

"Amy left early. Jonah and Hamilton stayed an extra hour after she left. We dismissed it after their departure," she said. Her tone was arrogant, as if her leadership of the Ekats had gotten to her head.

Ian frowned in distaste. He would much rather deal with the Starling blokes — as annoying as they were, their power hadn't affected their character. He wished Sinead was the one in therapy — not them.

He narrowed his eyes, even though Sinead couldn't see them. "Ms. Cahill left early for the right reasons. As did the Wizard and Holt. They have a sense of priorities, unlike _you. _You are completely missing the essence of this Cahill ceremony."

"Humor me," Sinead mocked.

He snorted. "The date, please."

"August sixteenth — _oh, shit!_"

"_Shit_, indeed," he echoed, laughing humorlessly. "I have no family. I think I deserve a chance to collect my thoughts like the others. Sorry for say, Starling, but it looks like your power's gotten to your head."

He was sure he could hear some sort of a growl from her end. "I, unlike _others_," she spat, "know that I have to fulfill the responsibility that my branch brings to me. At least I don't use my power for my personal needs!" she defended.

Ian snorted. "Still believing the tabloids?" he inquired incredulously. "I expected better of you."

"I have no reason to believe you after what your _bitch_ of a mother did to Alistair and my family."

He heaved a sigh. "_Grudges_."

"Rightly so," Sinead replied coolly.

"Holding a grudge against a dead woman and keeping it against her innocent son is hardly the right thing," he remarked.

"_Innocent_?" she echoed incredulously. "Innocent, _my ass_! She did dirty business with my parents and used my brothers as some sort if bait! You helped! Don't tell me you don't remember holding the gun to my head when you were fourteen — "

"Five years ago," he cut in. "I'm nearly twenty. I don't understand why you have this stored in your heart ever since." He cleared his throat. "Besides, holding a gun to a teenage girl's head seemed like an entertaining thought in my pubescent mind."

Sinead scoffed. "Jerk."

"I do my best. I'm not the one who brought up old encounters."

"Fine. I understand you're grieving. But you still need to uphold the responsibility of attending every meeting. I'm sorry you lost some family, but you should've came for at least a little while."

"I live seven hours away from Canada," Ian stated. "And this is the first meeting I missed." He scowled, before adding, "Not some, but _all_— I have no family."

"If you'd let your stubborn mind _forgive_ Vikram, then maybe you would!" she spat.

"That _bastard_ let his own wife and daughter die!"

Stunned silence. Harsh breathing came from his end, and a stunned stutter came from the other. His knuckles whitened as he held the phone in an iron grip.

Sinead inhaled slowly, attempting to backpedal the conversation from the dangerous turn it had taken. "Ian — "

"No," he said coldly, "I think you've said enough. Good evening to you, Ms. Starling."

And before she could say another word, he pressed the 'end call' button and hurled the phone into the fireplace.


	2. Feel My Bones Ignite

**a/n**: Here we go... This chapter is written entirely by me. Be sure to leave some feedback, as I'd like to know how I'm doing with my first fanfiction. (And darlings, don't expect me to rush any romance.) Thank you for the reviews!

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**« Feel My Bones Ignite »**

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Amelia Hope Cahill knew nothing other than pain.

It started late at night, an hour after she had fallen asleep. She could barely see the time blaring at her in glowing red letters as black spots dotted her vision and threatened to drown her in unconsciousness. But she didn't care. Surely incoherence was better than what she felt now.

Sweat glistened on her forehead, dampening the pillow beneath her head as she stared at the ceiling in despair. She couldn't muster the strength to rise from her bed, nor could she open her dry mouth to call for help. Her face twisted in pain and she gritted her teeth as the next wave washed over her.

Pain ripped through her limbs, flaring when she felt the feeling of daggers being plunged into her flesh. It dulled for a handful of seconds, suddenly reappearing when her body cramped painfully. Her mouth quivered as she struggled to breathe, salty tears rolling down her face.

She attempted lifting herself by her elbows, freezing when a throb in her head made its way down her spine, immobilizing her. Her arms shook and gave way, her head colliding with the headboard as she fell back to the pillow. She groaned. The pain was abnormally powerful, black dots devouring her vision. She wasn't sick. There definitely wasn't someone in her room doing this to her — there were sensors that detected creatures that weren't residents of her home.

And Nellie couldn't have slipped poison into her food. Unless...

Amy frowned. Now wasn't the time to speculate. She needed to determine how to leave her bed, or at least call for help, but she couldn't speak — and definitely couldn't move.

She felt an uncomfortable burning in her ankle and it rushed up her leg. It traveled through her veins like boiling lava. She took a shuddering gasp, just before it ripped through her torso and ignited her organs. A groan escaped her lips. As she struggled to stay conscious, she felt something pierce her head and cut through her chest.

Amy screamed, rolling over as acid forced its way up her throat. Her mouth stung as if she had chugged a bottle of rubbing alcohol. She gagged and coughed, dizzying at the sight of blood mixed with her bile. A weak cough escaped her lips, spraying the floor with scarlet liquid.

She shifted away from the edge of her bed, curling into a fetal position as blood ran down her chin. She could taste the metallic liquid in her mouth. Tears streamed down her face, and _she just couldn't stay strong anymore._

Amy sighed in relief when her bedroom door flew open, revealing her two guardians. She paid their frantic yells to stay awake no mind, and let the darkness devour her vision. Hands littered with scars clutched her face desperately, brushing away damp hair and wiping salty water off her face. She felt it briefly hover over her mouth and nose, before quickly grabbing her wrist and pressing a thumb forward to detect her pulse.

Her lips lifted in a wayward smile upon catching the scent of brownies mixed with the old aura of worn papers and spilled ink.

"She's slipping, Fiske!"

"Amelia Hope Cahill, you _will _stay with us, do you hear, my darling?"

"Not her, too..."

"Dan will be safe. She's our main concern."

"_Amy_!"

"_Fiske_, she's gone!"

Her eyes fluttered shut, weakening after an alarmed thud for her brother's health, before she let go and allowed the light to slip from her grasp.

.

Long nails drummed against the crystal glass of the empty flask resting on her table.

_Tap, tap, tap._

The circular platform in the center of the table spun, before opening to reveal a cylinder filled with puce liquid.

_Tap, tap, tap._

A figure clad in a lab coat carefully lifts the scalding container with metal tongs, grasping the rubber grips with both hands.

_Tap, tap, tap._

The spectator watched, and continued to relay orders with her eyes.

_Tap, tap, tap._

She slid a small key into the hole hidden away in her desk, opening the cabinet.

_Tap, tap, tap._

Her hands close around a syringe.

_Tap, tap, tap._

The liquid is poured in.

_Tap, tap, tap._

Her favorite needle is screwed into place.

_Tap, tap, tap._

A scream echoes through the halls.

.

"Doctor Elle."

"Mr. Cahill."

"The Madrigals and the entire Cahill population that is aware of the situation greatly appreciates your aid."

Her brown shoulder length hair spun as she shook her head in a curt nod. She tapped her fingers against the clipboard resting on her desk patiently, waiting for an invitation to continue. Upon the expectant glance of the older man, she cleared her throat and slipped on her reading glasses.

"We have roughly fifteen young men and women with us, all the Clue Hunt's generation of youth."

Fiske cocked a greying eyebrow. "Roughly?"

"Three are likely to die within the next forty-eight hours. If I could continue, sir..."

"Yes, please do," he sighed, rubbing a hand over his tired face, worn with years of stress.

"Now, with appreciation due to the Starling family, we have been supplied with the proper materials and, ah, _employees_, to fuel our research. It seems that our fifteen victims — four Madrigals, three Ekats, five Tomas, and three Janus — have a common mutation within their DNA," she said, eyes narrowing as she drummed her fingers against her oak desk.

The older man's face turned skeptical. "And this was discovered just now? This mutation?"

Her thin lips turned into a scowl. "No, sir, this was not discovered just _now_ for the reasons that you think. This mutation was instigated — they were all set on a timer of sorts. We believe that this defect — or advantage, if you wish — was instigated at the births of our patients. Their parent's makeup was nothing extraordinary, nor was there special blood running through their veins. This isn't quite natural, but I believe, if given the proper tonic, we will be able to awaken our... victims. It provides a very efficient — "

"There are side effects."

"Naturally."

"Please continue."

"The severest and most concerning is death, sir. Not a quick and simple death — a torturous, burning, withdrawn death. Nevertheless, the chances are slim of failure as I am confident of my research." Dr. Elle lifted her chin high, daring the older man to challenge her.

Fiske massaged his temples, his shoulders slouching in defeat. He rose from his chair, staring down at her. "Alright. But I will not allow you to register this cure on _any_ of the patients until there is at least a ninety percent chance of success. Understood?"

Dr. Elle glowered at him with barely contained anger. She stood to look him properly in the face. "As you wish, sir."

The elder Cahill gave a curt nod and turned to leave, pausing with his hand hovering over the doorknob. He turned halfway, and spoke over his shoulder.

"Elle?"

"Yes, sir?"

"You're cross-branched, are you not? Ekat and Lucian?"

"Yes, I am. Is there any relevance to the case at hand?"

Fiske smiled humorlessly. "I'd also like a complete report as to why there are no Lucian subjects suffering from this mutation in the hospital."

.

He looked quite dangerous, despite the navy blue pea coat and drenched hair matted to his head. He _was_ dangerous; there were knives hidden away in his boots, poison in his shirt buttons, a gun at the small of his back, and years of training embedded into his limbs. Despite all the threat rolling off of Ian Kabra, the five foot six man resumed tailing him through the busy streets of London, slick with the rain pouring from the storm that didn't seem to want to end any time soon.

Ian lifted his wrist and checked his watch; the man behind him had been on his back for the past half hour. He checked the reflection of the scenery behind him through a street lamp. Currently, his shadow was trying to look nonchalant by examining a newspaper with his sunglasses on, when it was pouring and the sky was nearly pitch-black.

He scoffed. _Amateurs_.

He kept his head down as not to be recognized, spotting his name and face plastered over a Marylebone magazine stand. He walked over, picking up the glossed load of rubbish and dropped three pounds into the vendors hands. He flipped through the pages, pausing when a portrait of his family taken six years ago - when he was thirteen - came into view. He skimmed the half-page reserved for singing praises regarding his appearance and displaying the dozens of photos taken when he had grudgingly taken part of photoshoots. His eyes strayed to Natalie's proud image and he tossing it over his shoulder without a backwards glance.

Ian risked a glance backwards, smiling dryly when he saw the man scurry to his previous position and scoop up the now soggy magazine. He scoped his surroundings. There was a narrow lane that curved outwards for a couple hundred feet, before curving back in a "u" shape and leading to an area of shops on the same lane, a bit farther back than he was now. To catch the man from behind was all he needed.

It was leverage, and he wasn't going to let it slip between he fingers.

He dug into his pockets, slipping on a pair of gloves, as a chilly breeze was now accompanying the frigid rain. Ian ducked his head down as he walked past a particularly crowded salon. He scowled. Natalie would never think to get her hair done from elsewhere when it was raining outdoors. _Frizz is a sign of peasants,_ she had always replied prissily.

He shook his head. Now was not the time for his thoughts to drift - especially towards his _dead_ sister.

He kept his face angled towards the cobblestone pathways along the side of the road, occasionally glancing in front of him to keep the short figure in sight. He pushed his way through the crowd, being the recipient of many hisses and indignant growls for his rude behavior, before coming to a stop a few yards behind his tail. The man hat lifted the hat off of his head and was clutching it, looking to and fro, his expression panicked at the loss of his target. Ian took a moment to take in the green eyes, rounded nose, and deep wrinkles lining his face. The coat, dress pants, and shoes of the pursuer were anything but shabby, and he suspected that the man was being paid well for whatever business he did. The lack of camera and the amount of bumbling hinted that the man was not one of his usual photographer shadows.

After all these observations, what Ian did _not_ see was the woman clad in a scarlet dress holding a syringe under her sleeve, stealthily making her way towards him, and using the bustle and crowds as her cover.

Just as he reached out to press the weapon - hidden by his coat - against the man's back, he felt a prick at his neck. He immediately lost control of his body as it transformed into a paralyzed weight, and felt himself being shoved towards a car hidden in the shadows of an alley. Before he could muster any energy to fight back, cool fingers skimmed his neck and pressed against his throat.

His last image was of painted red lips curving upwards in a satisfying smile, and dampened red hair framing a porcelain heart-shaped face.


End file.
